


Corral

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros learns that Fingon’s people have mistaken him for a kept elf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corral

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Inspired by my lovely Silm beta’s delicious ficlet~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The letter is succinct and casually bitter, as Caranthir’s are wont to be. The fact that he bothers to write Maedhros at all is still something of a surprise, though an appreciated one. However angry his brothers are with him, Maedhros knows they still _love_ him, and some days more than others, he _needs_ those ties.

Most days, he has his cousin’s love, far more full and unconditional, more than enough to sustain him. It allows him to read the letter in good humour. Propped against Fingon’s headboard with one white pillow beneath him and an orange sheet draped over his lap, Maedhros reaches the end and his brother’s unchanged signature. Maedhros’ answer will have to be in different penmanship than Caranthir’s used to—he’s yet to develop full dexterity in his left hand.

The door opens before Maedhros can set the letter aside. Though servants enter from time to time, Maedhros is unsurprised to see Fingon, the only one who would forgo a knock. He likely still would if these were Maedhros’ quarters, or even _theirs_ , rather than Fingon’s own. He shuts the door swiftly behind himself, as he always does: a wise precaution. He tugs his blue cape from his shoulders as he walks straight across the room, only to fling it carelessly over the chair of his desk. 

Maedhros expects his cousin to come to him and tilts his head up for it, always longing for that first kiss. It’s a greeting done chaste in public, intimate when alone. But Fingon instead comes to the set of drawers beneath the window, next to the bed. The evening light washes over his black hair and catches on the golden ribbons Maedhros weaved in this morning. The metal armguards wrapped tightly over Fingon’s tunic could’ve been removed down in the dressing room with the rest of his armour, but he does it here as though he’d forgotten—a servant will have to return them to their set before tomorrow. 

As Fingon unlatches the leather straps binding them down, Maedhros asks, “What is wrong?” Fingon stiffens immediately but doesn’t yet glance over. His strong jaw is set in a thin frown: something unusual to him. Maedhros can always tell when he’s bothered. With a sigh, Fingon swiftly finishes his work. With the armour set atop the drawers, he turns to face the bed. 

One step, and he sits down to perch on the edge of the mattress. His twists to meet Maedhros’ eyes, still stern, dressed in the trousers and boots of a fighter, while Maedhros lounges back in scarlet robes, silken and thin. He’ll fight again, he knows. Preferably at Fingon’s side. But their private lessons with his remaining hand still leave much to be desired, and he isn’t foolish enough to burden a troop with his vulnerable presence. 

Fingon never seems particularly put out by Maedhros’ fall from strength. He lifts his hand to cup Maedhros’ face, stroke Maedhros’ cheek and gently thumb his bottom lip. Maedhros leans forward into it, always eager for _more_ of Fingon’s touch. _This_ is the one thing even Morgoth couldn’t take from him. 

Fingon murmurs, eyes sad but earnest, “You are _very_ beautiful.”

Maedhros can’t help but smile. He never quite believes it anymore. But he turns enough to peck Fingon’s wrist and answers, “I am glad you think so, Finno.” 

He expects Fingon’s lips to twitch in a similar grin, but they don’t. Instead, Fingon insists in a strangely grave tone, “But I did _not_ rescue you for that.”

“I know.” Nor did Maedhros ever think otherwise. If Fingon were there for beauty, surely he would’ve turned away at the scarred, brutalized remains hung from Thangorodrim. Fingon’s love for him, care for him, touches and words and kisses have never changed. Watching Fingon’s broad shoulders slump gives Maedhros his own spark of worry.

He reaches to place the letter aside, next to the metal on the dresser. When Maedhros turns back, he takes Fingon’s hand in his, holding it tight to ask, “Fingon, what is _wrong_?”

It looks, for a moment, like Fingon will fight more. But then he shakes his head and lets out a tired sigh. He’s taken many burdens on, between the war against their common enemy and the tensions amongst their own people. It would make sense if something kingly were weighing on him, but instead he mutters, “I overheard an argument between archers I respect. They were... one was very adamant that you, Maitimo, should still bear punishment for your family’s crimes.” Maedhros’ chest clenches, not for fear of punishment but of a forced divide between him and Fingon. Fingon simply carries on, “And the other... he suggested that you were already facing punishment enough.”

Frowning, Maedhros admits, “My wounds will heal and they give no relief to those I wronged, I know that—”

Fingon shakes his head again, interrupting, “No, Nelyo, not _that_. He... it was a different thing they spoke of...”

“What?” Maedhros asks, curious, because aside from his maiming and perhaps the bitterness of his brothers, he’s well taken care of. He’s still a lord amongst the Noldor. Fingon wrinkles his nose, probably unaware of how _cute_ it always makes his otherwise ruggedly handsome face. 

He explains slowly, “They believed... and I now know that this is not uncommon... for some to think that your title is only honorary. That you have been, in all practicality, relegated to my bed.”

Despite the breadth of his surprise, Maedhros only lifts one brow. He would joke that such a position is hardly a demotion, but he can see that it’s sincerely troubled Fingon. 

Maedhros squeezes Fingon’s hand again, but Fingon pulls away, climbing to his feet. He paces the room quickly, harried and scowling—more uncharacteristic darkness on his so pleasant face. He growls as he walks, “When I spoke of this to others, to my own flesh and blood, I was told that I need not have gone to such lengths! My own _family_ suggested that if I had wanted a concubine, I could have had one from our own halls—”

“But you wanted this one,” Maedhros quietly adds. Fingon stops in his tracks, wincing. 

When he looks aside at Maedhros, he mutters, “I thought you would take more offense.”

Maedhros shrugs his shoulders and admits, “Once, I might have. But I am tired now; you know this. And I hardly mind the rest you allow me.” Fingon looks unconvinced. It’s strange to think that he could be more concerned with the façade of public honour than a son of Fëanor, but of course, he’s fighting not for himself, but for one he loves. Maedhros attempts to smooth over the subject, offering, “Come here; you remain too tense. I could give you a massage, if you like, though it will only be half of what I could once give you.”

Fingon seems to shrink, defeated, and for a moment, Maedhros thinks he’ll accept. But when he returns to the bed, it’s only to lean forward into Maedhros and bring their lips together. It isn’t the short, sweet things that Fingon gives when he tries to be comforting, but a hard, fervent one that says _you’re mine_.

Maedhros, even before all this mess, never had any doubt of that. He returns Fingon’s affection fully, one set of fingers rising to thread through Fingon’s dark hair, and he parts his lips to take in Fingon’s searching tongue. 

The kiss grows deeper, stronger, until Maedhros is flattened to the headboard, while Fingon sidles up between his legs. Maedhros parts them instantly, his robes sliding up his thighs for it, Fingon’s knees nudging beneath them. Fingon’s hands capture his face, tilting him this way and that between kisses, before raking back through his copper hair to tug at the frayed strands. Maedhros has to part their mouths a few times to gasp, but Fingon never lets him go far. Fingon traces down his shoulders, pressing firm enough for Maedhros to feel it beneath his robes, all down his chest and his trim sides. At his waist, Fingon pulls open his sash with ease—Maedhros never ties it tight, knowing _this_ is a constant probability. It’s true that he spends much of his time in Fingon’s bend, and not a small portion of that warming Fingon’s cock. But that’s no kind of punishment and they are, despite his resignation and Fingon’s rise, equals. If Maedhros were not _Fëanor’s firstborn_ and doomed to war, this might’ve been his whole world from the beginning. 

Fingon is just as full of adoration. Fingon spent much time in Maedhros’ bed, back in Valinor, when their families were friends, and even after, when it was somewhat easier to sneak out to one another. It’s good to be _together_ again, no matter how bruised Maedhros is for it. 

Maedhros lets out a breathy sigh as Fingon’s hand slips around his shaft, fishing beneath the folds of his robes and ensnaring him. His arms loop over Fingon’s shoulders, holding on. Fingon strokes Maedhros a few times, gentle but dry, before pulling back to spit in his palm. They’re kissing again a second later, languid but fiery. 

Slicked, Fingon’s hand works faster, squeezing a little here and there and twisting as it draws up. Maedhros doesn’t yet return the favour, because if they don’t pleasure each other at once, this time will last longer, and because he can tell right now that Fingon just wants to _take care of him_. Against his lips, Fingon purrs, “I wish for no other.”

“I know,” Maedhros murmurs in response, a little breathless and heady. “Me neither.” In truth, he never has. Fingon’s held his heart from the moment he learned it could beat so fast. He takes Fingon’s lips again, bidding Fingon’s warm tongue against his own, lips soft and sweet and fitting so well—they’ve become two pieces of the same puzzle, only whole when they’re intertwined. Fingon tilts his head and teases Maedhros’ tongue into his mouth, suckling it gently as his hand feeds Maedhros _pleasure_.

After a time, full of eager kisses and lilting strokes, Maedhros can’t hold back any longer. His hips buck forward, and Fingon allows it. Maedhros humps Fingon’s hand, grinding and thrusting his cock harder into Fingon’s sword-calloused fingers, over and over, until he has nothing left and can feel the heat closing in. 

He comes with a strangled cry, wrapping tighter around Fingon, who pumps him dutifully out. Maedhros is milked to completion. His orgasm leaves him dizzily compete. When Fingon pulls away, Maedhros is too satiated to fight.

He lets himself be rearranged. Fingon shifts back and tugs Maedhros down, laying him across the mattress, his head tucked against the pillow. Fingon leans over him to touch his face, tentatively brush his cheek, skim over the pointed tip of his ear, and slip back through the sweat-matted tangles in his hair. Maedhros is breathing hard and lifts his stump up against Fingon’s arm, bidding it to stay, so that he can turn to drag his lips along Fingon’s wrist again.

Fingon finally smiles. He leans down to brush his lips over Maedhros’, one hand splaying over Maedhros’ chest to prevent him from arching too high up. Close against him, Fingon murmurs, “Rest then, my love.”

Unable to resist a coy smile, Maedhros coos, “If my lord wishes me to warm his bed, so be it.” Fingon wrinkles his nose again, giving Maedhros the overwhelming urge to kiss it. 

Before he has the chance, Fingon’s properly sitting up. He only does so long enough to unfasten and kick off his boots. When he’s free of them, he lifts the blankets, scooting unceremoniously under them despite the early hour. 

Then he nudges Maedhros over so that they can spoon. Fingon wraps his arms tight around Maedhros’ middle, kisses his neck and shoulder, and promises, “You warm far more than my bed.”

Maedhros smiles, happy for what’s to come.


End file.
